


Feuillemort

by stqr_lord



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Character, OC, Other, Tenth Class (Team Fortress 2), Written in 2nd person, sniper x reader - Freeform, some transphobia, tf2 sniper x reader, written in 3rd person, x Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27215854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stqr_lord/pseuds/stqr_lord
Summary: Feuillemort- (adj.) the color of a dying leaf.follow the story of the instigator: a debt that can't be paid, their existence stripped from the world except in a small gravel pit in New Mexico, lies choking a team, and strings pulling at the tale beyond that of the administrator.You're always one choice, or better yet, one mistake from a different life.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Morosis

**Author's Note:**

> I'd first like to thank my Beta reader; code name Noah. Secondly I would like to thank the members of the 'This is Where We Are Now' fanfic discord. they encouraged me to not only create the instigator, but write out the story I am quite excited to share with you. 
> 
> the work is written in second person so you may enjoy it as an x reader, though it is more specific than most x readers, I hope you can find enjoyment still within its words. 
> 
> For chapter one, if you'd like to listen to background music as you read, I have selected this as my recommendation to set the tone!: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2tUydQOrkA&t=814s&ab_channel=GlobalMusicArchive
> 
> now enjoy!
> 
> Morosis- (n.) the stupidest of stupidities

It was not like the great heists you’d read about in the papers or stories; where the team is together and there is a thought out plan with backup plans on top of backup plans. No, this was standing alone beside your borrowed van, dreading the thought of moving your feet in any direction. All of your planning had been on the long journey to Mann Co. with some scrap paper. Whoever the goddamn postal service was connected to knows far more than you did. They had simply supplied tools and brief explanations of the security levels. How could they expect someone with no experience or skills necessary to even rob a bank, to have any hope of pulling the heist off? Unless, of course, this entire charade had always been a suicide mission for their sick entertainment.

Either way, you're dead.

Perhaps if you had read more of those heist stories you’d have a better chance, if only to rise out of the negative percentile of it going well. The rain-slicked pavement reflected the glow of the lights on the Mann Co. Building. You had once stolen pencils from teachers in school; this, you tried to rationalize, was just a much larger pencil. A trillion-dollar pencil, which was actually a gun, and the teacher was the most dangerous man alive.

You rubbed your face one more time, the black beanie scrunching up on your forehead with your movements. “‘I have been through far worse, I can do this, I will do this, and afterwards I’m set to forget about the whole thing,” you rambled under your breath, almost letting out a dry, nervous laugh. Best not to let it out, any attention drawn to you would likely go bad. You already looked suspicious enough standing on the side of an unmarked black van, dressed in a cheesy costume you practically had to beg use of to hide your identity. “As if they won’t kill me as a loose end as soon as the gun is in their hands,” you said under your breath bitterly. You begin pacing back and forth alongside the van, hands emphasizing in their expression what venom came from your lips. Once you realized your mind was a hamster in a wheel again, You forced yourself to stop pacing. Just one gun, just one break in, Just one foot in front of the other. A breath in. A breath out. Death waits for no man - and if he does, he doesn't usually wait for very long.

Walking across the street towards the building, it seemed as if the moon herself hid away from what was to transpire tonight. The bag on your back was hardly the worst weight you were carrying. Inside the sack, they had provided a few materials; codes for the doors and locks, a rather large knife—as if they couldn’t be bothered—and two objects with less obvious utility, their purpose, you assumed, would be clear soon enough. One was a battering ram, large enough to be strapped to the bag itself rather than inside it, and the other was a grappling hook. The grappling gun had a Johnson cherry color handle, and dips within its mold for your fingers to rest in, like a travel pillow for your neck. The actual barrel of the gun had the four pronged hook tightly pulled back into the barrel. The larger cylinder above it must have been where all the coil was tightly kept. You felt like Moby Dick; though you had not read that work, you knew there was something about a harpoon and a man wanting to fuck a whale, or something along those lines. You had no idea how far the grappling hook could shoot, or even how to reload. But hey! You knew how to pull the trigger, which was a start! That was half the battle won.

It was close to four in the morning; if you waited any longer someone would certainly be coming in for their shift. If all else fails, you could claim you’re an intern. You looked young and easily pushed around by ‘the man’ enough; That's a few seconds to buy before a round of bullets goes through your chest. As you approached the front door, you calmly reached into the bag and pulled out the papers, crinkled into themselves like science notes of a drop out. The door was one of those large, futuristic types; made from a clean metal and glass and boasting an electronic code lock. With the money Mann Co. has, you didn’t expect anything less intimidating. The code offered to you must have belonged to some employee, but you couldn’t say whether they were complicit or blackmailed into this like you. You put in the code, fingers trembling so much you feared that you might miss a number or tap the wrong one. The beeping of each button felt like a tick of a bomb. The click of the door unlocking. You felt a flicker of hope. One task done.

The building’s interior mirrored the extravagant exterior. Even the first floor corridors were tall. Small emergency lights left on during the night were just bright enough for you to make out the space. Doors to other hallways stretched all the way down the foyer, with elevators dotting the spaces in between. You winced at the loud click of your shoe's heels; the echo felt like a drum to a funeral procession. Your hand pressed at the elevator to go up, anxiety causing you to jab at it more than necessary. The buttons gave off a light with the likeness of an end of a tunnel, but a train coming at you full speed. As the floor numbers began counting down, you tried to match your breath to the rhythm. You felt watched.

The elevator made a dinging sound, almost too cheery, and rolled open. Your instructions said you had to go up to Saxton Hale's own office. Straight into the belly of the beast. And just as nerve-wracking as the waiting for it to descend, it was just as long of an ascent. Inside, the elevator was simply decorated, warm brown tones and wavy wall designs. You pressed your back against the wall furthest from the door, even moving you feared some SWAT team would rip open the elevator and drag you out. Finally the same cheery ding signaled the doors opening, and the pitch black of the top floor awaited.

Australia was known for many unpleasant things but the cold was not one of them, not the cold of this room. The skyline gleamed from the floor-to-ceiling windows along the back wall, and the elevator’s light shone from the open doors towards the ground. But both light sources couldn't pierce the blackness and reach, yet the bleakness thrived in the space light could not greet. A large desk dominated the room, decorative plants lurking in the corners and a table for display clear of any weapon. taxidermized beasts lined the walls like soldiers standing at attention, as if their commander could walk in at any moment and give the order to shred apart the burglar. Even in a smaller space than the first floor, your steps were just as loud. You held your breath, a sudden fear that it wasn’t your breathing you hear...Silence. You allowed yourself a sigh of relief. Regardless, you acted faster than before. You placed a hesitant hand along the wall, feeling for what the instructions had warned you about. The insanity of having a punch strength sensor for a lock did little to not remind you of this man’s power or threat level. Your hand came in contact with the rubber pressure plate and you quickly pulled your hand away. You had one good shot or else it was over. You set your bag down, putting the paper inside. Oh so this was what the battering ram was for wasn’t it? You hefted it out from the strap holding it on the backpack. Even with your upper body strength, there wasn’t any way you were gonna be able to get it on the first try. You dug further in the bag, pulling out the knife, its size from the wrist to the tip of your middle finger, hardly threatening but a knife was a knife. The bag also offered a small ring of lock picks, varying in size and rust from age, and of course the grappling hook. Irritation as clear as neon lights painted on your eyebrows. You had made it farther than even you figured you had any right to, but now you might as well have been on a desert island with a single piece of scotch tape. You lifted your gaze skyward, muttering a plea for guidance to the gods above half-heartedly. When you refocused your eyes on the ceiling, however, you realized it wasn't a flat surface at all. The ceiling had arches from one end to the other, almost reminiscent of high beams . Oh, how clear and how idiotic the idea filled your head. Your hand blindly found the grappling hook on the floor, eyes remaining on the beams. Perhaps there could be a chance that the grappling hook would take to the beam and perhaps it could hold your weight and perhaps it could get you to swing and perhaps it could give you enough momentum to bypass the battering ram entirely. Possibly. And that was as much of a chance as you needed.

You stood up, backtracking to move the chair—oddly made out of guns—out of your way. Whatever. This man was clearly insane, and reacting to new proof of that was a waste of time and thought. Your mind was running at full speed; a coherent idea like this was rare. You examined the grappling hook. How loud would it be? How much power did it have? A twitch of pride at the corner of your mouth gave away your thought process. The saying goes- crack some eggs for an omelet or something for when you're cooking. Well, you mused sardonically to yourself, your hypothesis for this experiment is similar. Drop a few apples to figure out gravity. Did anyone say that? Yeah, you.

You counted down from three, but the trigger was so light under your finger you only made it to two before the hook shot out, as fast as an arrow from a fully drawn bow. The sound came at you in two parts: the clank of it ricocheting against the ceiling, and then a ping into the beam. The metal coil the hook was connected to was pulled tight against the arch’s bar and wrapped tightly before the entire show ended with another click.

You tugged on the grappling hook, the gun giving you more slack. You pulled the trigger to tighten it again, the coil straightening like a violin’s strings before a symphony. For a moment, you forgot why you were given this tool and simply appreciated how awesome it was, smiling for the first time since you had gotten in that van. You started to get ready to lift off the ground with the battering- You let out an audible ‘oh!’ quietly, realizing you forgot to grab the battering ram. The hook had to be able to hold your 170 pounds and the 35 pound battering ram without snapping. This little gun, sitting in the palm of your hand, looked well-made sure, but you’d be scared even to accidentally drop the damn thing and it would break. You spaced your feet apart on the floor, mindful of if the coil were to snap mid lift; you wanted to land on your feet and not your neck.

You positioned the strap attached to the battering ram on your shoulder and let it waterfall its way perfectly into the curve of your waist. Gripping the metal line a little tighter, your other hand remained on the grappling hook, pulling the trigger to retract the coil. As you held your breath, your feet raised from the floor, the coil retracting as if you weighed no more than a soup can.

‘How ironic if this was made by Mann Co.,’ you thought, ascending slowly until you were almost two feet off the ground. That would hopefully be enough to allow you to swing and gain momentum. You looked away from the ceiling and fixed your gaze on the target, then began to sway back and forth. The grappling hook line did exactly as you'd planned, enabling you to slowly drift towards the punching sensor before rocking back again. The feeling was like being on a roller coaster, looking over the edge before you plummet down. You had enough trust in the grappling hook to move your feet in front of you, getting them into position to brace against the door once you were close enough. A few more swings...Finally you felt your feet come into contact with the door, your whole body folding against the frame of a fake wall, and with a shout of "whoop!", you launched yourself backwards to gain speed. As you came forward again, hand clutching the battering ram tightly, you let go of the hook and let out a “Rrargh!” as you drove the battering ram into the punch strength sensor, your entire body slamming against it. You tumbled onto the floor in a pile of limbs and the heavy battering ram followed suit, right on top of you. You instantly felt a hot bloom of pain as it smashed against your cheek bone, hissing and reaching up to cover the injury as if covering it now would somehow prevent the harm already caused. It wasn't busted open or bleeding thank the gods, but you’d be damned if the bruise was going to be the ugliest shade of purple for the next month. You found your vision returning to you as a voice projected from the sensor, “Processing….2,031 pounds of pressure….Welcome, Mr. Hale.” You let your head fall back, giving a victorious, yet tired laugh. Not bad for a mail delivery worker.

You got up and stepped over the battering ram, leaving it there to reclaim your grappling hook. Now how the hell do you get it to come back? You made another guess and pressed the button, holding it down this time. The hook seemed to almost leap off the beam and whip around it before winding back right into the gun. Oh, how that felt so right in your hand. You picked up your bag and stuffed the hook away before stepping into the secret room.

The lights came on once you walked far enough in. Mr. Hale didn’t seem to spare any expense, including light sensors, when it came to his special selection. How this entire showroom could be hidden from view in the biggest skyscraper in the area, you could not conceive. Leave it to the insanity of the Australians. Much like the animals lining the walls of the main office, the secret room had its own décor, large statues held weapons of destruction and two rows of podiums facing opposite of one another contained their own instruments of war. For a moment you were back at a sea of tents and vans, organized protesting of a war that had raged on since you were a child. You wondered what Auntie Cora would think of. You stealing something she’d fought to get rid of. About how she’d remind you about the hate and senselessness behind these arms of the rich. Your hand twitched as you walked along the rows, knowing your target was only the one standing alone at the end of the room. Auntie Cora was right about the senselessness, but right now, that gun was the only way to keep her from finding your body.

The podium at the end had its own spotlights to show off the sleek suitcase to its full effect. It looked like some sort of rocket launcher, like they showed in school, those graphic war clips from Vietnam. Your employer hadn’t told you what they wanted it for, and quite frankly, you didn't want to know what sort of potential crimes against humanity would happen with it once you brought it to them on a silver platter. But it didn’t take an expert to see the Australium completely integrated into the weapon. The world’s rarest metal, the source of all of Australia's gifts of science and strength. Your hands and eyes hovered over it . For all you knew, this thing could fire nukes with the capabilities this metal has; the thought made you retract your hands slightly.

You set aside your fascination to think over your next move. There was no way it was as simple as just picking it up and walking out the door. You circled the podium, looking closely for any lasers, wires or buttons. Maybe Mr. Hale never assumed anyone would get this far, and the security extremes might intimidate the buyers too much. Though your instructions did mention that someone before you had stolen the entire stock of weapons, leading to Mr. Hale installing stronger security measures for the building. So why was this so easy?

Staring at the damn thing wasn’t going to make it easier, best to get it done and over with. You shook your shoulders to loosen them, causing your jacket sleeves to roll back down your arms in preparation for the grab. Your hands gently came in contact with the case, and slowly pushed it close. The case creaked from the weight of the gun inside, the weight much like the battering ram you had before. When the case finally came together with a click-

“UNAUTHORIZED CONTACT WITH ITEM NUMBER 674738. CONTACTING MR. HALE…” came the intercom almost instantaneously.

Time to go!

You had already started running once the robotic voice started saying the number code for the gun, you held the suitcase against your chest as you dashed for the door- as it promptly sealed itself closed. Your mind went into survival mode. There wasn’t room for any of that fear, fear that had plenty of space to boil in other parts of your body besides the head. ‘You will not die, you will not be stuck in this room, you will not be found by Mr. Hale and you will not fail bringing this gun back to the bastards’. You threw down the suitcase with far less care than when you picked it up, finding a way out was the first step. You dashed over to what looked like a grenade launcher from the closest podium, cocking the reload. Of course Mr. Hale kept the guns with a full clip, why wouldn't the psychopath? Your eyes flicked back to the door, aiming the gun towards the tightly shut entrance and decided to make your own way out.

A sound like a 100 cars crashing into another and your wrist instantly snapped back; the grenade launcher fell to the ground with the smoke clearing from the hole just big enough for you to kneel through. You held your wrist, rubbing it with a hiss. For the first time firing a gun at least you hadn’t missed. You snatched up the briefcase containing the gun and dove through, lights coming on in the office from the emergency mode the entire facility was now under. Your feet slid under you as you smashed the elevator button over and over. But not even an arrow for the directions the elevator lit up from the command. Of course the elevator was closed, why wouldn’t it be? You cursed out all the words you knew and ran a hand through your hair, feeling the fear rise again. ‘Lets see what we have, I have time- I have time,’ you convinced yourself enough to stop spiraling into having a paralyzing panic attack. You ripped the bag off your back, digging through. The only thing that could do anything for you now is the grappling hook. Of course, you could Grapple down! You took the hook with you in hand as you jogged to the large windows to the office, glancing down. There was no chance that the grappling hook was long enough to extend down this many floors. That left one other option; through the elevator shaft. You switched back to the battering ram that you left before, slugging the battering ram into the elevator doors with a huff of energy each time. After several blunt hits, the doors finally were indented enough for you to force yourself through to peek. Your mind rang like an alarm of how the minutes have passed since the system was tripped, no time to even think of that either.

The elevator seemed to have gone back down, leaving 70 floors in free fall. Above you sat the elevator’s lift system, and in the middle of the shaft was the thick pulley. Even if the grappling hook wouldn't work if you went down the side of the building, You had the option of repositioning the hook every few floors, at least, in theory. You squeezed your arm through and shot the grappling hook to the top, hearing two clicks before the tug of it began to wrap. You leaned back inside of the office, the briefcase in one hand and the hook in another. You looked like Marry Poppins with the hook and case in hand. No lights even gave you an idea of how far it was down or even if there was anything to hook into once you got down enough from the first hook. A leap of faith never seemed as serious of a statement until now. One more tug from your hand against the hook and you were sure it was tight enough. Dangling a few feet off the ground like earlier versus several thousand in this moment, not any different as long as you didn't think too hard on it.

Your foot extended out in front of you, your knuckles turning white from the grip on the grappling hook. 'There's no time for you to be scared' hyping yourself up would only waste more time, and without a thought after that, a scream rang out your throat as you threw yourself over, the sound filling the vertical tunnel.

There wasn't any reason to close your eyes, the lights slowly flashed in the darkness. Red bulbs slowly illuminated just enough of the mechanic parts littering the walls. The wind brushed along your face under the speed of your fall. After a few long, long seconds a snap, and the coil had extended to full length, causing you to be thrown against the wall of the shaft, a cry of pain and another 'fuck!' strangulated from you. Your grip remained vice on the gun and suitcase. Your eyes flicked around you but not down, the only thing concerning you down there was the ground and it surely was not going anywhere. The grappling hook almost reached three and a half floors length, now that was impressive considering its size. The walls had pipes and their own wires snaking up and through holes, like veins along an arm. You let yourself free fall once, it had to get easier, or at least you had practice doing so. Nothing would be easy for you in life, not ever since you decided to ask your auntie at 12 to cut off your hair.

You reached your finger towards the button on the grappling hook, the ringing of alarms almost muffled from outside the doors along the elevator shaft you had passed. A click of the button- and another scream. The hook detangled itself from the ceiling and retracted at a rate faster than you were falling at. You counted with breaths, 1...2...3..4… and fired again towards the wall this time, with another harsh collision into the wall, you felt thighs swell on impact. The hook had dug into one of the pipes on the walls, faithfully that were of a larger size.

This cycle went down entirely for the building. It was far longer than you hoped but this wasn't a world record attempt at rock climbing. Once you felt like you were getting close enough and your body felt like a speed bump, you spared a glance downward to see how close you were. Two more rappels and you'd make it! This shitty plan actually worked! You gave a small chuckle of victory, you had not screamed in fear of falling for the last few descents; though you weren't going to get rid of feeling tense muscles from being in the air. You prepared your feet for the impact, landing and immediately falling down, catching your breath as the hook whizzed back to the gun lazily in your hand. Oh to feel your back and feet and hands against the ground again. You've done enough grappling to fill a lifetime you felt, after tonight you'd never even jump off the counter after grabbing a cup on the high shelf.

Just as you had felt ready to get up-

'THUMP'

It sounded like a car hit the ground level elevator doors across from you, the size of the indent backed that theory as well. You jumped at the sound, sitting up and backing against the wall.

'THUMP- THUMP' this time the doors cracked, the hole shining the light of the hallway of the first floor in. A massive hand shoved its way in the hole and gripped the door before ripping it away.

There was no doubt, there wasn't any other possibility of who did that.

The man who stood in front of you, chest heaving, arms twitching with the exertion of force previously used looking right into you. The men in uniforms behind him with weapons raised were dwarfed by his stature. The crinkle of eyes and grin on his face matched no predator left alive.

The grim reaper did have a name and face under his black hood and it was Saxton Hale.


	2. Quartervois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ramifications of breaking into the most dangerous man alive's office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quartervois  
> (n.) a cross roads; a critical decision in one's life.

You’d been handcuffed before, but the feeling of ropes binding your wrists together behind you was a new sensation.

The blue lights that lined the ceiling’s edges provided a haze, causing it to be difficult to focus your vision. The color had the likeness of bodies frozen at the bottom of an iced over lake. You leaned forward, groaning at the ache in your neck from the position you were tied in. The chair you were bound to remained cold somehow, as if the chair had as harsh intentions as Saxton Hale did. The man himself strode in front of you in silence, perhaps planning out his first choice of bone to break. The room was roughly the size of a garden shed, just enough for the shark to circle you. Within the room, it had only yourself in the chair, a small table with items on it that you couldn’t get a proper view of, and Mr. Hale himself. His choice to keep silent left you to ponder; was this room for interrogation often, or was this a quick preparation for your arrival?

Mr. Hale knocked four times on the door to your right, the only way in and out. “Reddy! Put a line through to Mrs. Pauling; tell ‘er I've got her little spy and there isn't a respawn this far from the bases."

There was a mutter of, "Yes, Mr. Hale." From whom you could deduce was Reddy before footsteps cantered away. You couldn't be bothered to try and make sense of his words, your own mind still trying to catch up from hitting against the walls of the elevator shaft.

After Saxton had dragged you out from the elevator into the hallway. He was determined to look the thief in the eyes before snapping their neck between his fingers, stripping you of your beanie. With an expression of frustration following the eyes of curiosity at the discovery of you not being a man, he ordered his security to prepare a room. Saxton Hale had personally carried you, like a pet owner grabs a cat by the scruff, all the way to the room. All the while, he was spitting out spiteful curses, half of it you couldn't deduce the meaning of. Immediately he had placed you down and taken rope from off the wall of the room and tied you making promises of 'getting to the bottom of this'. He had left for what seemed like hours as you slowly dozed off. Even if you were scared, the exhaustion from that night's stress and efforts left you with little energy to remain on edge and prepared. It wasn’t until when you had fallen asleep that the clicking of the door opening and closing instigated your survival instincts to be brought wide awake. That's when Mr. Hale began his saunter around your chair.

Saxton Hale still loomed even in his relaxed facade, holding his chin in thought. "I can't figure out if you're one of the most talented agents to try and run off with my stuff, or if you're the luckiest bludger in all of Aussie." He mused, shattering the silence of the room. His tone was in the form of a question with an expecting pause.

"Luckiest." You tried to answer, but it came out far more gravelly than intended. Hale gave a small smile, wickedness made home in the crinkle of his eyes once more, like when he ripped open those doors, predatory in the hunting sense. Once he got his information from you then you were nothing more than a loose end. This realization made your chest shake; you had failed your mission. Whoever wanted that gun now will hold up his promising threats of failure. Mr. Hale had said something else, but dread had muted his speech from your ears momentarily.

"No, I don't believe it for a second Sheila." Mr. Hale said with his voice rising enough for you to return to Earth. his large hands finally came from behind his back to clap in front of him. "Had you not been a fine lady, I'd kill you and make you into a new chandelier!" He amused himself with a laugh.

You found no such sound rising within.

"My other question is, what does a young lady want-" Mr. Hale's amused tone dropped, his words boiled in your ears with bloodlust. He brought his face level with yours and glanced down your form before locking into your face, "-with my gun.".

You wanted to push away from the man being so close. You had to make a choice, lie to him to keep the blackmailist from hurting your loved ones, with their promise if you had tried getting help, or to tell him the truth, and now it was not only your ensured death but your aunts as well. Your resolution to protect her would not be swayed by even Mr. Hale himself. Courge, in moments like this, was not a synonym for stupidity.

“Quite the toys you have as well don'tcha'? Not Mann co.’s standard of perfection, but look how far you got with ‘em!” His voice returned to its upbeat tone. You couldn’t tell if his comment was meant as a compliment, the small part inside yourself looking for praise at any given chance wanted to take it as such. He held up the grappling hook in examination. “Haven’t thought of making grappling hooks marketable, I'll give you that. The preferred mode of vertical travel for the bastards is by rockets.” He spoke of 'bastards' as if you were supposed to know who he was talking about, you saw it best not to ask.

He turned away from you and now ran his hands over the items on the table. You could then see it was all of the items from your heist bag. “Along with a battering ram, and some lock picks.” He finished off the list of contraband, placing the grappling hook back on the table. He himself seemed distant in thought, besides the average distance of insanity.

Once more he turned his eyes to you, looking for something in your face to give away anything. “You didn’t seem to carry any weapons with ya' I noticed, perhaps planned on baggin' one as you came out. Had made sure to take the prettiest sheila from the dance home with you didn’t ya?” he asked, as he tapped a picture of the weapon, the weapon you were sent for, having kept the photo on himself for when he could bring it up into the interrogation. The sun, you thought, by now must be rising.

Good morning! _Now wake up from this nightmare._

"She sent you didn't she?" He asked to fill in the silence you gave out of fear and the part of you standing your ground and refuse to answer him. You didn't need to confirm it or fight it as he spoke. "Was stealing all of my supply not good enough last time? If it weren't for my secretaries telling how important of a client her and her little mercenaries were, I'd make them all pay in their own blood!"

You didn't have a clue who was behind the scenes of your blackmailing, the man who had been present with your boss at the post office hadn’t spoken a word while your boss briefed you on what they knew and what they wanted. The man was older, lanky, and a face covered halfway up with an extended turtleneck, and one eye covered in some sort of lense. You tried not to make eye contact with him at the time as he beated his own glare into you. The silent man acted as if he was just to ensure the threats and mission was delivered. A woman having involvement in the strings above him was not far out of the question though.

“I thoroughly enjoy a neck snap before my morning coffee, but…" his face returning to the agitation from whence he had stripped you of your beanie, "I can not beat up a little lady like yourself."

Your fists clenched and in turn the ropes bit into your skin harshly. Start swinging big boy, you spat at him in your mind, as if getting your skull bashed inward was somehow sick validation. Another knock on the door, this time from the other side of the exit.

"Mr. Hale?" Came the voice you earlier identified as Mr. Reddy. "Damn it Reddy! I've told you before not to interrupt torture time!" Saxton yelled towards the door with a huff.

"Yes Mr. Hale, but Mrs. Pauling is here. She asked to see you immediately." He answered, seemingly undentured from the words 'torture time'. Then again, to be working for this psychopath would mean having to just accept it all with the job.

Mr. Hale's shoulders relaxed, smile returning. "Even better, send her in-"

Mr. Hale barely had the words out of his mouth before the door popped open like a champagne bottle on new years. Through the door spilled a woman dressed in purple, her hair tied back but it was clearly in a rush. It would make sense if it was sunrise. The man behind her brushing himself off from being shoved aside, you assumed was Mr. Reddy, dressed in a fine suit.

"Mrs. Pauling!" Saxton greeted her, with arms and palms spread out to his sides like friends meeting over lunch. Mrs. Pauling's face only looked at yours.

"Spy?-" She had started before the commotion was finished and she properly looked at you. "Spy?" Her tone turned into more confused annoyance than concern. "Mr. Hale...you said you had spy. This isn't spy."

"It's a spy. You should know who you sent to steal MY stuff!" He argued back.

Mrs. Pauling's eyes turned sharp. "What 'stuff' did she take?" This caught your attention. You were not who she came for, but Mrs. Pauling didn't let the burly man know, not yet. You'd had it with secrets beyond your own.

The two continued talking as if you were not even there. "You'd know wouldn't ya? The big one. Hasn't even hit the catalog yet! How you figured out we had a prototype already is a bloody mystery to me. I let it pass last time you stole from me mate, but a second time is an invitation for me to come and kill your mercenaries. Had it not been for my new security just for you, I'd been robbed again!"

"She isn't one of ours Mr. Hale." Her voice was agitated, as she adjusted her glasses and finally moving her gaze to him.

"With that tone you're starting to sound a lot more like Helen. Been around her too much, eh?" Saxton said with a chuckle.

"How long did it take for you to catch her?" Mrs. Pauling asked, changing the subject. once more you felt those pricks in your stomach to the way she had referred to you.

"She might as well have been bloody walking out the damn door! Thankfully I had been prepared to be here within four minutes as part of the new security measures." Saxton said, standing proud at this. You kept it to yourself that even with these new measures, an amateur got that far with just problem solving skills.

"That far?" Mrs. Pauling asked quietly, finally giving you another thoughtful look. "What has she said to you."

"She's done nothing but shake in her boots. If you're telling me she isn't really yours...then who the _hell is trying to steal my guns_?" Saxton asked her, his own tone lowering with mrs. Pauling's own.

"And how did they know about that gun…" she finished the second part of the question Mr. Hale had as well. "Has she said who she's working for?"

"I'll tell you again Sheila, she's not talking. I want answers and I want someone to pay for this!" Saxton said, throwing his hands up. "Who am I going to make pay?"

This man was going to kill you like an animal and these two spoke as if you were inhuman. Treatment you refused to receive ever again, and yet were quite literally tied down and forced to hear it. And of course the reminder in the back of your mind that aunt Cora was going to be killed or you were going to be. Your thoughts became rapid, your firm conscious cracking like glass. You squint your eyes closed tightly to stop the shaking in your chest. You didn't want to do this in front of them.

When you opened them again, Mrs. Pauling was looking at you, almost unreadable, but the pity in her eyes was not one she could hide. You wanted to beg for your life, but if you walked out you'd be killed by another group of liars and secret holders. You felt the cry gargling in your throat, desperate to keep it down.

"If she refuses to admit who she works for then you can bill her." Mrs. Pauling said, resolution in her voice, finally looking away from you. "My employer expressed for me to collect the spy. I'm sure she would want me to bring home another asset as well, as further investigation is conducted. Plus Mr. Hale, under our supervision she can work off her debt, for the gun and the damages and time it has cost you."

Your cry that was rising within ceased, shocked from her offer.

"Madam, the gun she had tried to run away with was a one of a kind prototype, I couldn't even give you a cost right now for it. That does not include the multimillion dollar doors she blew up." Saxton said, voicing his doubt and objections. Truly he just wanted you dead as the best form of payment.

"And we will work with her to that. You know the medic will force her to keep working. I personally will ensure her paychecks go directly to you." Mrs. Pauling tried to tempted him. "A permanently dead thief can not make you money."

"What kind of work?" You asked aloud, almost like a plea for an explanation, and yet Mr. Hale had not even changed his face at the statement of the work. What the hell kind of people were they? Both parties ignored your question and continued their barging.

"...I do like money." Saxton finally answered Mrs. Pauling, a sly smile on his face.

"Then release your prisoner to me and I can promise immediate return on your investment." Mrs. Pauling held out her hand to him to seal the deal.

"I'm not for sale!" You interjected, when you finally found the courage to raise your voice. Your voice wavered with the panic that kept your chest vibrating. You weren't just scared you were angry; angry to be called an 'asset', angryto be a barging chip.

"Well then I can arrange for your execution." Saxton said in his first address to you throughout the exchange, it was sharp and quick, like a parent scoldinga child for speaking without being spoken to. "Tell Helen this is a gift from me to her. She knows how I liked being thanked." He added, with a wink and nudge to Mrs. Pauling. Mrs. Pauling gave a more forced smile out of disgust in return.

Your mind spun with all the worst meanings their words could have in forcing you to work. The horrors of it all made you feel dizzy. You could end up dead and there wouldn't be a person who knew. But if you followed along and did this job, then as far as your blackmailers knew, you were actually dead, rather than if you returned empty handed. They'd have no reason to go after you or your aunt. You bowed your head again, submitting yourself to this deal. "I'm in."

A way out is a way out. Perhaps death is a better option then what awaited. Perhaps what waited was death. It's like Aunt Cora had instilled in your mind as soon as she had the chance; capitalism was the rich man's chess of human lives. It was too late for you to take the immediate death option, Mr. Hale finally extended his hand to Mrs. Paulings' and they shook.

"Deal." Mr. Hale said like a period at the end of a sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow an update that didn't take four months, amazing. I had already had typed out chapter two when I released chapter one, so I was slightly ahead. I only had to edit chapter two, though this time I didn't have a beta to assist me in grammar or other simply small tweaks. if you'd like to suggests tweaks I'll be more than happy to hear it out! thank you again for tuning in and see you in chapter three loves.


	3. Oscitant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oscitant   
> \- os·ci·tant | \ -nt \  
> yawning with drowsiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oscitant   
> \- os·ci·tant | \ -nt \  
> yawning with drowsiness
> 
> please read the end notes for important info on the fic.

Turbulence from the airplane rattling had kept you from catching up on sleep; you didn't know when the next time you'd see a bed. Comparing the two experiences, you still figured the seat in the plane provided more comfort than when you had been tied to a chair.

Mrs. Pauling was in the far front of the plane in her own seat, hastily talking on the phone with someone while writing with her other hand, trying to keep her clipboard from slipping off her lap as the plane shook. It was clear whoever was on the other end of that phone line was not happy. It was not the commercial airplanes that offered you a nice cushion for the seat, or a window to look out into the clouds. Another rattle from the plane gave you the direct answer that this was, in fact, a private military equipped plane. Within the haul lining, both sides were jumper seats, the look of it similar to those videos you had seen of the Vietnam War. There appeared to be boxes with the Mann Co. Labels inked into the sides sliding along the floor, receiving the same care you had from the lovely company. Then again as someone who worked for the US postal, you couldn't say you treated the boxes in your care any better. You remained mindful not to accidentally kick one close to your foot, lest it blow up on accident from the weaponry inside. 

From this point, Mrs. Pauling hadn't spoken to you besides telling you that you and she would be taking a plane. Unspoken words were provided, such as that you wouldn't be tied up or man-handled again as long as you behaved. You were allowed to sit quietly without restraints on yourself. There was one thing you were given though, it seemed even your debtors were traditional enough to offer a pack of peanuts to take on the plane. 

Mrs. Pauling finally hung up the phone, huffing out as her head hung against her chest in a release of stress before she brought it back up and began writing rapidly once more, sometimes scribbling out what she had written and began again. She knitted her eyebrows together and tapped her pen against the clipboard. She hardly looked over thirty, her face and frame giving off so much gentleness. What would lead a woman like herself to be involved in something like this? 

Mrs. Pauling placed the pen down and rubbed her face, lingering there with fingers massaging her forehead. Even as a prisoner you felt some sympathy for her, clearly overworked. She looked up from her hands and at you, noticing you watching. You turned your face down quickly, eye contact was an invitation for a challenge in the animal kingdom, and what more were the people you were surrounded by if not animals. You spared a second lookup, she remained looking at you. 

“Please come over here, I would like to sort out some things with you.” She spoke, Her tone also thick with dread. How could she sound so upset as the free person between yourselves? 

You carefully got up, stretching your legs slightly as you walked. The ache of sitting still for these long periods made you far too twitchy. You sat down beside Mrs. Pauling, leaving a seat between you two for your comfort. Mrs. Pauling reached down beside her seat, Picking up a large, burgundy-colored briefcase. The leather was aged but shined as if it was polished for this very occasion. Gold trim lined the handles and number code. In the center of the leather briefcase were a symbol, bomb lit, and a word in front of it. 

**_RED_ **

She carefully put in the number code, opening it with a satisfying click. The noise of the airplane was now distant. Mrs. Pauling opened the bag wide, showing within the several files, each almost stuffed with papers. Careful fingers feathered through to the first one in the line and pulled it out. She placed it gently on the seat next between you and her, giving the file a little nudge towards you as a sign to take it. 

Gently you opened the file, catching the papers that slipped and held them against the file holder. Inside the first thing to catch your eye was the photo, clipped against the papers. Two buildings faced another in the distance, the forefront of the photo was… a pit of stone.

“The gravel pit,” Mrs. Pauling started, giving a narrative to you as you read. “ is what you’re fighting for. Two brothers who believe they each have the right to own it for themselves and hire men to fight for them, to claim the pit.” 

“Fight?” You asked, pausing your reading of Redmond’s history. You have had spars and seen members of your caravan group get into terrible fights, oftentimes your aunt was the one to patch up the more daring fighters, “You want me to get in the ring with the men who work under Plutarch?” 

Mrs. Pauling twitched a smile. “It will not be that sort of fighting. We hire mercenaries, Gunmen, to fight out this feud.” 

“Gunmen? You’re saying it’s...a war for it? Shooting and all?” you asked, flipping through the file more, hoping to find evidence of this being a jest. 

A hand found its way to yours, pausing your panic. “Don’t think too much about it now, let us just get through this first, okay?” She asked, letting go of your hand. You sat up a little straighter in your chair and focused on the file. “Don’t worry about reading and taking everything in at once, I brought this whole suitcase for you to have to study. Inside are also files on your teammates and their classes.” She continued, gently taking the file from you and placing it back within the suitcase. “What I need from you, is help to sort out what role you could fill.”

Mrs. Pauling took the clipboard back up in her lap, leaning it towards you so you could view it. “Each team member helps the team in some fashion. I have taken the liberty to write down and help find what I think our team could use the most of. With our other members...We handpicked them, with months of review of their suitability, assessing their skillset.” She spoke, her voice trailing away. “With you, I, unfortunately, can’t.” 

“Why did you save me then?” You blurted out without thinking if it was a good idea to ask. Why would Mrs. Pauling throw herself out there to take you away from your execution, and now tries to make you into a soldier? Your tone was firm, You wanted an answer for once in this damned path you were stuck on. 

Mrs. Pauling fixed her glasses, clearly in thought. “I couldn’t begin to tell you the truth...But I could tell you even doing the work I do, I know you don’t know what you are doing, and clearly, you were tied up with people of interest to the administrator, my boss. I believe my employer would be upset if I let the only lead we had been killed by her ex.” she smiled after you gave a small one back at her comment. “I can’t promise this is going to be better than being killed though, I hope you understand I mean well.” She finished, looking back towards her clipboard. “I had taken note that you scaled the building with a grappling hook, I figured it was a start to helping figure out what we are gonna do with you.” 

Mrs. Pauling and yourself went down the clipboard. After her speech, you felt more relaxed with her, not to be mistaken that you trusted her, but trusting that, she was good in her heart. You would take any form of kindness after these few weeks of isolation from empathy. On the paper was a list of roles that she, in the time the war had begun, took note of positions that could improve the team's efficiency. Mrs. Pauling gently tapped with her pen to the paper to a word circled several times. “One quality of life factor the mercenaries complain the most of is running out of ammunition. I have looked over and over this list and I have decided this is your best position. Easy enough to give out ammo right?” 

You glanced subconsciously over towards the crates. Mrs. Pauling didn’t seem to know or didn’t share her knowledge of your previous job. Supplying ammo seemed the safest position, wouldn’t it? “Should be.” You answered. 

Mrs. Pauling flipped the pages on the clipboard to a small magazine. “I had spoken with Mr. Hale about supplying you with the uniform and weapons but...He wasn’t too keen on doing so. Financially I have found some items within the magazine that I could convince Mr. Hale to be willing to add onto your debt, I’m- sorry to add more on.” Her eyes turning away, embarrassed at the reminder that you're an indentured servant to the bastard. 

“I’ll take a look.” You muttered, accepting her hand extending the magazine towards you. More than half of the magazine was crossed out with the pen from the cost and Saxton Hale refused to offer to you, the listings included the most basic of weapons, you rolled your wrist thinking about how much kickback these weapons most likely have. 

You spent the whole hour or so flipping through, Mrs. Pauling giving suggestions, almost like window shopping. After you had finally pieced together an almost coherent kit, be it a mix match of what was on hand with Mann Co., Mrs. Pauling had left you to read through your file a little more. You read more into the feud with the brothers, which, even after the brief study you found it to seem silly. Perhaps there was more to this than just sibling rivalry, surely there must have been. Your eyes stray back down towards the briefcase, the nine files you had yet to touch brought immediate interest. You gently picked up the briefcase and began to read the files.

Your mind couldn't commit to reading all the files in full, only able to scan the files and let any info that catches your eye be given full attention. 

Scout; he looked your age…Spy…almost entirely blacked out in information …Pyro, the file was blacked out fully…Heavy…Medic… 

Words began to become unreadable as the shaking of the plane became like a cradle for a gentle rocking into to sleep.

It wasn’t until Mrs. Pauling shook you gently awake that you knew you had landed. “We’ve made it, Come meet the team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT!!  
> If you look at my other work(s) you'll see the gap of the dreaded chapter 3. Chapter 3 always seems to stump me, I write it out but never become satisfied with it and go through changing and editing it over so many times I just never release it. I don't want Feuillemort to end up unfinished, so I am just gonna push this and come back one day down the line or accept it as the best. Thank you for your patience and IMPORTANT QUESTION: would you prefer, like, or dislike if I switched the POV from second to third? I feel like writing in second just isn't my favorite style and I feel like it might be withholding my ability to convey the scenes as I wish. I will leave it to the comments to decide.

**Author's Note:**

> You made it to the end and I thank you! feel free to express thoughts and anything in the comments below, I hope to respond to them as much as I can!  
> if you would also like, you can find the fic's special blog on tumblr @meet-the-instigator !  
> I hope to see you all again in the next chapter and wish you well!


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